Afterglow
by Not your average
Summary: ALIENS! Now i have your attention, read this. Sequel to Vainglorious. Theres a mysterious figure hunting everyone dear to lord Vetinari. And that includes Sam Vimes. Can he get before he's got? vimes ahmed, sybil? vetinari? read on to find out...REVIEW ME
1. Volte Face

**Afterglow.**

Hello! I'm baaaaaa-aaaaaack! Ahem. This is a sequel to my story Vainglorious. You don't have to have read it- but sure it helps. Basically, as we speak, Vimes is in a relationship with 71-Hour Ahmed, but he was married to Sybil. That's pretty much all you need to know to make any sense of this chappie. Yes, obviously, there is slash. But it's very, very tame, so even if you don't like it give this a try….I'm a review junkie! I'd like to take this opportunity to greet what I hope is a small but loyal band of reviewers from Vainglorious. waves Anyway, this chapter is just setting the scene, much more interesting stuff will be along later. But read it, there's some funny moments…I hope. NYA

O yeah- this is dedicated to Enelya Aldarion. I told 'em a chain link fence wouldn't hold rhinos! Oh wait, no I didn't. I meant to tell 'em! .

Disclaimer. Does Vimes run around the Discworld books without his shirt on? No? I probably don't own him then. Yet.

_Chapter One_- Volte Face

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork Watch, took off his helmet and smoothed down his hair. Somewhat absurdly, he was nervous. Nervous of returning to a place he had called home for four years. How ridiculous.

He pushed the doorbell firmly. A tuneless jangle rang out but was abruptly cut off as the bell in its entirety fell off the door. A smile creased his features. Some things never changed.

There were sounds of a scuffle from within, then small yipping noises. Willikins the butler appeared, red-faced yet remarkably composed given the small dragon clamped resolutely to his leg.

'Ah, sir Samuel. Her ladyship is expecting you.'

Vimes entered, wiping his boots respectfully on the mat, placing his helmet on the hall table with the easy gestures of familiarity. He looked up into his own face- and his insides briefly writhed with guilt. Sybil hadn't taken down the portrait yet. It hung above the drawing room door, so that the pair of them, Sybil and Sam, beamed down upon every guest who entered. He looked so happy. He had _been_ so happy. Willikins coughed politely, and Vimes shook himself out of his reverie, casting around for something to focus on to dispel the wave of nostalgia.

'Is that Lord Copperburn Wingspy Talonthrust the 7th?' Willikins nodded stiffly, surreptitiously shaking his leg in an effort to dislodge the creature. Vimes bent and stretched out a hand.

'Look, you just have to tickle him. He's a big softy really.' Straightening up with the dragon purring contentedly under his arm, he caught Willikins' disapproving look.

'Where is Sybil, anyway?'

'Her ladyship is in the Terribly Tangerine Drawing Room.'

'The what? Ye Gods Willikins, sometimes I think you make these names up!'

'It's been repainted,' the Butler replied stiffly, opening a door and ushering Vimes inside. Vimes first impression was that a swamp dragon had been lying in wait, and had flamed into his face. The room was indeed, a terribly violent shade of orange. Lady Sybil was inside, in full and majestic rant at a small and surly looking dwarf, who was holding a dripping orange paintbrush and contriving to look even smaller and surlier than he already was.

'H_what _did you think you were doing?! I said peach! Apricot at the most! Not tangerine!' The dwarf muttered something.

'Not your job to think, man? We'll see about that!' She turned, chestnut curls bouncing around her head, the light of battle in her eyes, and spotted Vimes. Sybil's rage melted like an ice cube under a blowtorch.

'Sam!' she exclaimed delightedly. 'How lovely to see you. Tea?' Relinquishing the dwarf, who scuttled away, she embraced Vimes and, seizing his arm, piloted him onto the garden terrace, where a table was set for two. It reminded Vimes forcibly of that evening, so long ago, when he had proposed to her. But he was not here to dwell on happy memories. They sat down and Sybil poured, beaming with genuine warmth. Yet Vimes, who knew her well, could sense the expectancy beneath her façade. He drank tea for a while, cursing his cowardice. In the end, Sybil spoke.

'How is Ahmed?' Vimes nearly choked on a sugar biscuit.

'Harumph, sorry, ahem. Yes. He's fine. He's gone back to Klatch for a while. Left this morning, actually.'

'Oh, I know. Judith told me in her last letter. They're going to get everything sorted out, money, estates, you know. Apparently they've been in quite friendly contact, which is nice. What?' Vimes, ignoring the part about 'friendly contact', was staring at her in disbelief.

'You…you are writing to the woman who tried to kill me?'

'She is my sister, Sam. And you did steal her husband. And I know what it's like to lose someone you care about…unexpectedly.' There was a pregnant pause. To avoid her eyes, and making a valiant attempt to tune into planet normal, Vimes found himself looking at Sybil's dress. It was a rather pretty blue summer one that he hadn't seen before. And now he thought of it, Sybil was different, too. There seemed to be less of her, for one thing.

'Sybil, have you…lost weight?' Her once so familiar face was thinner, but she still blushed the same way. Expansively. There was plenty of blush to go around.

'Well, yes, actually. I have been on a little diet. But all that has to stop now.' She patted her stomach.

'Well, yes, exactly. You're fine just the way you are.'

'Um…' Vimes was surprised to see that she suddenly looked awkward. 'That too, I suppose. But I meant something else, you see…' she looked at him meaningfully, but Vimes' face was radiating bafflement.

'When I said new beginnings, earlier, I wasn't just talking about the drawing room. Though that is part of it.' She paused again. Vimes was completely lost. What on earth did the drawing room have to do with Sybil's stomach? 'Well, Sam, not to put too fine a point on it, I'm making the drawing room into a nursery.'

'For the baby dragons?'

_'No_, Sam. For my baby. I'm pregnant.


	2. The Curious incident of the pterry in th...

Dear Reviewers, ha! I bet you thought this was a chapter. Sadly, this is untrue.

Although there aren't many of you, I nonetheless feel obligated to tell you that I have given up Terry Prattchett and all pterry related activities for Lent, because I read and wrote entirely too much of him. And I have done very well, despite the combination of giving up this AND chocolate making me claw at the walls, but this does mean that there will be no chapter two of Afterglow for about 18 days yet. 'NO!' I hear you cry, wringing your hands in despair (or is that just my overactive imagination?) but rest assured that on Easter Sunday not one but TWO Chapters will be winging their way towards you through cyber space.

So please, PLEASE don't get bored and wander off, your patience shall be rewarded, so it shall. And Erin, he had a damned good reason. You just wait till you hear it….teehee.

And so, lavondyss21, Enelya, sunny-historian, nicki, H-Rose and Erin, I shall hopefully be reviewed again by you soon!

Not Your Average.


	3. The Geranium Inaugeration

Well, dear readers…………..I am BACK! AGAIN! Please enjoy this offering from the brain of Not Your Average. Lent is over and, as promised, here is a chapter for your perusing (and hopefully reviewing, hint hint), pleasure. I have just let my muse out of its cage and it's gotten very fat and lazy from a period of such inactivity, so please bear with me if this chapter is a little slow. Hopefully it will get better. Anyway. Just read it, ok? And tell me what you think. Help me improve!

Disclaimer: Once upon a time someone wrote some books about the Discworld and copyrighted them, the bastard. And it wasn't me. Get the picture?

Basically, in case you can't remember what happened, Sybil (who is no longer married to Vimes), is pregnant. I'll shut up now.

_Chapter Two_- The Geranium Inauguration .

'Pre…preg…._pregnant?' _said Vimes, his words as detached as his brain. His inner policeman, realising that the rest of him was temporarily out of action, kicked in.

'What? How? Why?' Another thought occurred to him. 'Who!' Sybil blushed expansively.

'The same way as other people. Because I have always wanted one. And for heaven's sake don't look so worried, it's not yours.' Her comment floored him. Of _course _it wasn't his. When was the last time they had…? His brain shied away from the thought. Well. He should have expected something like this. After all, he was seeing other men, why shouldn't Sybil? _There's some irony for you,_ said a small voice that only surfaced halfway down a bottle, or late at night. The rest of his brain sat on it, but it continued muttering vindictively; _What did you expect? Her to sit around waiting for your visits, looking at your picture, crying into her veil? Hah! You stupid, jumped up copper. You were never good enough for her anyway._

'Are you all right, Sam?' Sybil's voice was anxious, caring, and he cursed himself.

'Of course I am. Congratulations, Sybil. I know its what you have always wanted.'

'Thank you, Sam.' The unspoken sentence hung in the air between them. _And it's something that **you** never wanted. _Vimes stared into his teacup, waiting for her to tell him who the father of her child was.

A young man with a shock of dark hair over his eyes appeared in the garden from some concealed entrance, whistling cheerfully and ambling along with his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his expensive looking waistcoat. He spotted Sybil and Vimes and strode over to them, depositing a kiss on Sybil's cheek and looking curiously at Vimes.

'Max!' Sybil beamed, metamorphosing instantly from awkward to welcoming, 'did you have a good walk?' But the young man kept his eyes on Vimes, who in turn was gazing at him with a horrified, glazed look on his face. Sybil could practically see his mind jumping from standing start to a conclusion.

'Sam, this is Maximilian, my _nephew_. Judith's child, you know.' If anything, this seemed to make the situation worse. Vimes' eyes bulged out and he seemed incapable of normal speech.

'Whee?' he managed, while Sybil rolled her eyes and gestured to a hitherto unnoticed, older gentleman who was walking towards his part in the perverted family tableau.

'And you know Lord Downey.' The head of the Guild of Assassins smiled charmingly and laid a hand on Sybil's shoulder.

'Commander' he said, 'how nice to see you. Has Sybil told you our happy news?'

It was horrible. Horrible. Vimes' brain scuttled around like a spider, looking for a way out of the situation.

'But Sybil,' he burst out suddenly, 'he's an Assassin!' Lord Downey's grin widened. _Bastard. Bastard, _thought Vimes, for once all parts of his brain in agreement.

'Why, yes I am' said Downey, seemingly exhibiting a Vetinari-like ability to read minds, and purposefully accentuating the aristocratic tone of his voice, 'How clever of you to notice. But then again, I believe your…_boyfriend_ is also an artist of the noble craft. I trained with him myself, in fact. Very good at stealth work. Do give him my regards, won't you? And of course, you are both invited to the wedding.'

-oOo-

In the streets of Quirm a heavy, dusky scent infused the twilight. A profusion of geraniums, blood-red, poured their scent into the well-paved street outside a white-stuccoed mansion. This was a house very different to the crumbling Ramkin estate. The white walls were immaculate; no speck of dirt marred the perfectly smooth pink marble walkway. The door was painted a shining black, the doorknocker was polished, the mat swept. The house oozed money and status. And blood.

Under the door a sticky rivulet trickled. It built up behind the lip of the doorstep and bubbled over, darkly staining the pale mat in the fading light. The door opened and a figure stepped out, the face indiscernible from a black hood. It carried a dagger which it used to carefully scratch something on the door, splintering the paintwork, and then thrust it into the earth surrounding the flowers in the window box. A few petals fell as the figure walked away, the sharp tang of blood mingling with the floral scent in the air.

-oOo-

Drumknott slipped silently into the Oblong office and deposited a file on his lordship's desk. Lord Vetinari was gazing out of the window again, the sun full on his pale face, his eyes dazzled as he thought of who knew what. Drumknott itched to go to him, to lay a hand on his arm, his cheek, to draw his eyes onto his face and away from the beacon of Pseudopolis yard, a site half a city away and towards which Vetinari gazed if not daily then at least enough to be worried about.

Drumknott worried a lot. About city budgets, about what would happen if lord Vetinari died, about falling in love, about disappointing his formidable mother, who had taken to asking him pointedly when he would be bringing his girlfriend home to meet her. But mostly he worried about Vetinari gazing out of that window towards Vimes. Who wasn't even there, for goodness' sake. He watched his own hand, unbidden, knock a heavy paperweight off the desk. It crashed to the floor and chipped the smooth stone.

'Really, Drumknott, there are other ways to get my attention.' Vetinari turned round with an arch of his eyebrow that would have turned Fred Colon to jelly. 'Oh, dear. And that was a gift from the Selachii's. A good job it was so hideous, throw it away. Where shall we dine tonight?'

'I thought Rosetti's, Havelo-' Lord Vetinari raised a finger-'your Lordship.'

'Yes, I do like their breadsticks. I shall meet you there at eight.' He looked around again, at Drumknott standing there, clutching the paperweight. 'Do not let me detain you.'

Turns you on and off, that's what Vimes had said about Vetinari. And he was right. A press of a button and Drumknott was on, an assistant, efficient and impersonal. Off, he had to go home to his bare apartment for three hours until Vetinari beckoned again, back into action, this time as a lover. A routine so predictable that it was boring, and Drumknott lived in fear of becoming that. They blended well, the two of them. Too well. Their working rapport had flowed seamlessly into a relationship, so that no one noticed the difference and, apart from some things (Drumknott blushed), well, he would hardly have noticed either. He would have given a great deal to know the thoughts behind those ice cold eyes. Did Vetinari care for him at all? Or was he just a replacement, second best to someone Vetinari could never have. He would have been comforted to know that the patrician did care, a great deal, a fact that had not been lost onsomeone who even now journeyed towards the great sprawling city-state of Ankh-Morpork.

-oOo-

To previous reviewers-

Enelya my dear, rejoice, for I have both reviewed and posted in one day. And if you actually pick up your messages you will find an Easter message from me too! Review now or I shall bar my door to you.

Nicki- hopefully you will still be jumping having read this. Although maybe not….its quite dark, really, this chappie. Hmm. Depressed myself. More funniness in the next one, I promise. I'm glad you're happy but how come you never reviewed Vainglorious?

Sunny-Historian- well, I have carried on……..

H-Rose- hello, new reviewer! I remembered the night watch thing after my post, dammit. But come on, one incident of naked Vimes in like, 5 books? Not enough!

Lavondyss- yes, I felt it needed something too. Like a big fat explanation of what happened between Vimes and Sybil. And it is coming…

Erin- thank you for your lovely long review. And as you can see, I am starting to explain why dear old Vimesy and Sybil broke up. Hehe…sorry, I was just giggling at how I imagine his face to look when he finds out that Sybil is marrying Downey. Anyway, don't worry, I am hauling Vetinari in to have a little talk about his emotions. He kinda got away from me there at the end of Vainglorious, with the kissing and the crying and the 'Always!' but he is hopefully more in character here. I like Ahmed too. Oh, his sexy charm (in my head, he's about 6 foot and not at all scarred, or bearded. But that's just my head.)

Love to you all…..NYA.


	4. A Bloody A

Well, I had hoped for more reviewers before I posted again, but that doesn't seem to be happening (stifling a sob). So, here is another chapter. I have laboured over it all today (seriously, you would think I didn't have exams to prepare for, or anything!) so I hope you like it. For those of you who wanted a longer chapter (Deathwisher, Erin), here it is! Very long indeed by my standards. For those of you who wanted to know what the hell was going on and for me to stop with the cliffhangers (Enelya, Lavondyss), sorry! You still don't get to know. Hehe, yes, I am evil. But the more reviews I get, the more I am inspired to write (oddly enough). So review, all ye who read this, and even those who don't (not sure how that would work…but meyh. This is my alternate universe, it doesn't have to make sense.)

Summary- Vimes and Ahmed- getting it on. Sybil and Downey, getting it on, getting married, having a baby. Vetinari and Drumknott…some waters are too deep to wade. But blatantly, getting it on. Creepy hooded figure- well read on, and find out what he's (or she's) doing!

Disclaimer- The name on my birth certificate isn't Terry Prattchett, so Vimes, Vet and Ahmed sadly aren't mine. But Judith is! Muahahaha.

NYA 

_Chapter 3_**- **A Bloody A

Vimes sat in the Watch house, ignoring the reproachful creaking of the floorboards that meant Carrot was still outside, pacing, waiting to deliver his reports. For the first time in years, Vimes had no interest whatsoever in what the crazy people of Ankh-Morpork were up to. They could be shredding each other in the streets, blowing things up (even more than normal), staging a tribute day to old Stoneface, and he wouldn't have cared.

Well, well, well. So Sybil was pregnant. He hadn't told anyone but clearly Vimes had been Sybil's last inhibition, the marriage notice, gleefully written by William de Worde (who had posted by coincidence a cartoon of Vimes looking angry on the preceding page) had been in the _Times_ and on Vimes' desk before the ink was even dry. The watchmen were avoiding his eye; even Fred had only shoved his messages under the door before waddling off to hide behind his desk. There was nothing about the baby in the paper. Vimes felt a burning desire to get very, very drunk.

The post had contained a small moment of comfort;

_Sam,_ (said Ahmed's hurried handwriting)

Arrived safely. Made excellent time- so unlike our previous journey, where I was forced to cut my own rigging to avoid losing you. They do say the excitement is all in the chase. The men think I have become weak in Ankh-Morpork- so I gave some of them unexpected haircuts. Don't look so reproachful, Sam- actual haircuts. With my sword. See how I have learned the ways of civilisation. Judith met me on the dock, with her entourage. She has not changed. I have to go now to an interminable 'forgiveness' dinner with Khufurah. I am afraid he wishes to scold me for running off. How very boring.

_Yours,_

**_Ahmed_**

**__**

Vimes placed the note in his next drawer. He was too full of feelings to write back to him- he was sure Ahmed would not appreciate a page of rambling about Sybil, and even less a note reproving him for visiting Judith in the first place. Thinking about Ahmed made him feel guilty, as if caring about Sybil was tantamount to infidelity. It was natural still to care about someone you had loved, wasn't it? _That's not the question, _said the sly inner Vimes. _The question is, why are you so jealous? _

A frantic knocking disturbed his brooding sanctum.

'Go away' he snapped, but Carrot burst in anyway, his cheeks and ears pink with excitement.

'I'm sorry, sir, but there's been a murder!' Vimes raised his eyes to the ceiling and shut them.

'Cheery! Detritus! Angua!' he bellowed. 'Let's go!' He turned to Carrot. 'You're in charge.' Carrot ripped off a salute.

'Yessir!'

-oOo-

The people of Klatch had not forgotten him. Ahmed had stood on the prow of the boat when they landed at Al'Khali, his sword glinting and the heat from his homeland hitting him as if from an oven. There was a small crowd on the harbour, shimmering in the heat. Some were curious, some came to gloat, some wanted to show the _wali_ their loyalty hadn't waned. He had heard the men whispering together on the ship. 'Poof', they had called him, an Ankh-Morpork word and not one that the Klatchian seamen would know. Someone had been talking. Ahmed smiled to himself as he pictured the look on their faces when they realised he was listening. There were some sailors in Al'Khali now with _very_ short hair.

But now he was here, in Judith's silken, extravagant apartment in the palace. After the dinner they had retired to the chambers that they still, officially, shared as man and wife. Ahmed pulled out his silver cigarette holder, inserted one and lit it carefully. He never used it in Ankh-Morpork. Across the room, Lady Judith did the same. They blew out matching coils of smoke that undulated across the distance between them and wreathed together between the oil lamps hanging overhead.

'Samuel Vimes, I seem to remember, smokes some sort of vile cigar, does he not?' Ahmed met her eyes for a second.

'They aren't that vile.' If you looked very carefully you might have seen Judith's cheeks redden for a fraction of a second. But the woman had control. You had to give her that, Ahmed thought.

'Of course not' she said airily, and gave tinkling little laugh. It used to make Ahmed smile but now set his teeth on edge. What had he seen in this woman? Her audacity knew no bounds. He couldn't believe she sat here calmly insulting the man whom she had tried to force him to kill. Judith fixed her huge dark eyes on him and smiled, her red lips full and inviting. Ah, he remembered. She was beautiful, and darkly alluring, so opposite to lady Sybil that you would not even have guessed them related, let alone sisters. He had been so captivated by her beauty and her charm, and his extraordinary good luck that she was eager to bestow both on him, that he had waved away the sudden tempers and irrational behaviour she exhibited. Oh, how quickly her playfulness had turned to spite and petulance.

She was watching him, testing him to see how he would react. But Ahmed was a D'reg, a hardened desert policeman, and someone whose cynicism could give Sam Vimes a run for his money. He was damned if Judith would get any satisfaction out of this meeting. Nevertheless…

Without warning Ahmed's arm shot out and caught the wrist of a young girl, one of Judith's personal handmaidens, who was setting the ornate silver pot of Klatchian coffee down on the lacquered table between them. Judith raised an exquisitely manicured eyebrow.

'What is your name?'

'J-Junga, _wali_.'

'Empty your pockets' said Ahmed quietly, aware of the eyes of the other servants tracing his every move. The girl began to shake, tipping the bag of powder from the concealed pocket in her dress. Her mistress kept her eyes averted, she was lighting another cigarette, rearranging the folds of her dress, flicking ash away with dainty, precise movements. Ahmed looked at her with something approaching disgust. The girl's life meant nothing to her. He drew his sword with a hiss of steel and the handmaiden began to cry, snatches of prayer in Klatchian. He raised the great curved blade and drew it swiftly across the back of her hand.

She gasped. Beads of blood, red as rubies, stood out from the crimson slit. When Ahmed spoke it was to Junga but he kept his gaze on Judith's resolutely downcast eyes.

'If I ever see you in this house again I shall cleave your head from your body and give it to your mother. Now leave. All of you!' The girl fled, dry eyed from terror, and the rest of the servants followed without a backward glance.

Judith leaned forward and drank straight from the spout of the coffee pot.

'Clean' she said, running her pointed tongue over her lips. 'A test. You passed. And failed.' She poured coffee into his cup.

'I could kill you' he said, watching her hands for the slip, the flash of powder from a ring, a drip from a concealed bottle, but there was nothing.

'Just as easily as you could have killed that girl.' Ahmed flushed behind his beard. 'How far would you get, I wonder, with Khufurah's men in the cities and Cadram hiding in the badlands?' Ahmed stared into his cup. Khufurah, once his prince and his friend, had been at the Dinner cold and distant. No amount of diplomacy could reconcile him to the fact that Ahmed, his most trusted advisor and friend, had left when he was most needed. He looked at Ahmed and saw a coward, a deserter, and worse- the blank faces of those who had died when Ahmed's D'reg tribe, enraged when they thought him dead, had attacked the prince's escort. Anger flared in Ahmed's chest. Judith was poison.

'The desert could swallow me,' he said. Judith waved a hand airily, mockingly.

'Oh, the desert. Of course. But we both know you would want to get on a ship and go running back to that idiot you left me for.' Ahmed's face contorted but he did nothing. His head felt curiously light. _The heat, _he thought. _I must be unused to the heat._

'I have people watching him' Judith said. He could feel her heavy eyes on his face. 'They send me ciphers. Do you know what he is doing in your absence? He has gone to Vetinari. Vetinari's terrier, isn't that what they call him?' She laughed again, and the silvery waves of her voice seemed to wash over Ahmed, to drown him in anger. He grabbed clumsily at her arms and pushed her back, onto the floor, her body bent crookedly beneath him as he fought to clear his head.

'Go on' she said 'do something. Hit me, kill me.' He threw her hands away and half rolled, half fell to the ground. The pink-silk bedecked ceiling swam in front of his eyes.

'You can't, can you? So it's true.' Judith was sneering now, her beautiful face twisted into loathing, snakelike. 'The rumours are true. _Wali_ is soft, _Wali_ is weak. _Wali_ cannot even kill a girl who is trying to poison him. I thought my sources lied to please me but they were right…where is the man I loved, Ahmed? You let that _policeman_, that _stupid,_ _ignorant_ man change you.' Every word dripped with venom and she crept, lithe as a girl, atop his body. She wound her arms around him, caressed his face.

'The cup' he whispered.

'Of course there was something in the cup. But don't worry, my darling, it wasn't poison. Just a little something to restore you to your old self.' Even as she said the words he felt it, the lust flooding his limbs, his blood, his brain. Judith lowered her beautiful red lips like a lioness to the kill and kissed him, devoured him. He lost himself in the capacity for her betrayal and knew no more until it was too late.

-oOo-

Vimes rubbed at the shape in the dust with his foot. There was no mistaking what it was. Cheery had already covered the body, taken iconographs, been sick and gone to get Igor.

'Are you sure you can't get anything else?' he asked Angua, for the third time. The young policewoman would have presented a curious sight to a tourist. She was squatting in the dust, her eyes closed, sniffing very deliberately at a piece of reddish wood she had picked up from the ground.

'Positive, sir. It's a dagger handle, drenched in blood, the same blood that's on the ground. But someone's used a scent bomb on it. And the blade is gone.' She sniffed again. 'Wait…there's another smell…' she screwed up her nose concentration as she thrust the wood closer, willing herself to smell past the sharp beguiling tang of blood. 'It's so difficult, sir!' Vimes crouched next to her.

'We're in an alleyway, sergeant. Maybe if you changed, it would be easier?'

'Not a good idea, sir.' She nodded at the entrance, where a small crowd of onlookers had gathered, peering in with the small mindedness of voyeurs everywhere. Vimes could even see a sausage vendor, one of Dibbler's rivals, edging closer.

'Detritus!' Vimes shouted. 'Block this alley!' The troll, who had been standing aimlessly looking at the wall, _ding_ed to attention.

'Whatever you say, Mr Vimes.' He pulled a brick out of the nearest wall and placed it carefully at the mouth of the alley.

'_No_!' Vimes snatched the brick back and gave it to the waving hand that had appeared in the gap. 'Just _stand_ there, Detritus. Stop people coming in and looking around.' By the time Vimes turned back Angua had already changed. Whining softly, the golden wolf sniffed at the piece of wood on the floor for a minute, and then growled. Vimes obediently shut his eyes.

'Leather, I think' said Angua, when she was pulling on her breastplate. 'Soft leather, quite new. But it's all doused in this flowery scent, all over the corpse, the floor, everything. I don't even recognise the type of flower.'

'Gloves' said Vimes distantly.

'What?'

'Leather gloves on his hands. So he wouldn't leave prints. Black, probably, to go with what I imagine is a pretty flash black outfit with a cloak. Damn. You know what this means, don't you?'

'Our murderer wears gloves, draws messages in the dirt with blood of the victim, and steals the blade but leaves the handle of his murder weapon.' Vimes glared at her.

'_Yes_, but also, what we have here, is a cryptic killer. Not your average murderer, who just wants to get away with it, but someone who sits down and thinks about leaving _clues_ to lead us on, to keep our attention. We're supposed to look at…that…and come up with some kind of elaborate theory. Which will be wrong. Cryptic killers are always some scarily intelligent, twisted bastard who wants to get caught but can't quite just give himself up. A skinny runt with a grudge and a workroom full of cheese wire and knife handles. He's probably sitting somewhere now with a Make Things Bigger Device, watching us. Why do the nutters always have to come to my city? You never hear of this kind of thing in Sto Lat, or Gebra, or-or-'

'Why do you assume it's a man?' Angua interrupted. Vimes ignored her.

'And the worst thing is, he knows what he's doing. There's blood all over this alley, and not a whiff of the man. Scent bombs. Whoever came up with those was just trying to make my life difficult-'

'Hey! You can't go in dere!' Vimes peered around the troll's lichen encrusted arm to see two harassed looking members of the palace guard.

'Vimes!' said one, spotting him, 'Vetinari wants you up at the palace right now.' Vimes looked stonily at the guard, whose companion nudged him. 'Sir Samuel, I mean.'

'That's better.' said Vimes amiably. 'Damned if I won't be Sir Samuel to someone with a peacock feather, dear me, in his helmet. His lordship will have to wait, I'm investigating a murder.' The guards exchanged looks.

'His lordship anticipated your reluctance. He said to show you this…' One of them proffered an iconograph. Vimes took it and stared. Angua caught a flash of red.

'Lets go' said Vimes.

'Bring the wolf' added the guard, and Vimes raised a finger.

'I mean, bring Sergeant Angua.'

'That's right.'

-oOo-

Igor shuffled along the street until he saw Detritus' hulking form.

'Where's the body, Detrituth?' The troll pointed. 'Ye godth!' said Igor, spraying the corpse with spit. 'What happened to him?' Detritus shrugged, then rumbled into life.

'Mr Vimes said dis is evidence and you ain't to go cutting it up for organs.'

'Yeth, well, there's not much here I could use anyway. What'th that on the floor?' Detritus shuffled over.

'Dunno. But Mr Vimes said for to cover it over.' They both peered at it. Scratched deeply into the packed dirt of the alleyway and smeared with the dark brown shade of dried blood, were two diagonal lines meeting at a point and bisected by a third, shorter line.

'Lookth like a capital 'A'' said Igor thoughtfully.

'Yeah' said Detritus, grinding the letter to nothing beneath his massive foot.

-oOo-

Tune in next week…or tomorrow. Maybe. I don't know.


End file.
